


Imagine: Castiel seeking you out for comfort and care after he is badly injured.

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [48]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Caretaking, Fluff, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 01:15:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17653235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket





	Imagine: Castiel seeking you out for comfort and care after he is badly injured.

The motel’s sagging spring mattress and scratchy sheets don’t exactly provide a cushioned cocoon of slumber which makes the awakening instigated by a hollow pounding on the wooden door thinly shielding the room from the parking lot all the more _rude_ in nature.

Groan vibrating your throat and the general darkened musty atmosphere, you grapple with the pillowcase for possession of the Glock tucked beneath. Hoisting your slumber numb form to the floor - an angrier sleeper even than Dean - you fully intend to flash the weapon at whatever drunk asshole stands beyond the barrier in the hope they piss themselves as divine retribution.

Wherever the Winchester brothers are tonight, you pray it’s quieter as you shuffle toward the origin of the midnight kerfuffle.

The owner of the fist not so gently rap-rap-rapping at the chamber door mumbles your name punctuated by a desperate choke of, “ _Please_.”

Recognizing the gravelly tone as uncannily alike that of a certain angel of the Lord you know and care for profoundly, your brain informs your feet to pick up the pace. Lunging at the knob, fumbling with the chain at the same time, you yank at the door before the metal latch slides free. 

Through the narrow crevice into the night, Castiel’s grimacing and pinched features loom; your name once again spills in a pained whisper from his pale lips. His eyes rise to settle on you, a plea for sanctuary swirls in the sea of blue.

“Cas, oh my god-” You mutter, struggling against the worry at his sudden appearance - not to speak of his actual injured _appearance_ \- speeding your heart- “hang on!” You manage, barely, to summon willpower enough in panic to close the door in his face in order to properly to liberate the lock.

He stumbles across the threshold; the mass of the man housing the multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent that is Castiel crashes over you like a wave.

Bracing a knee, you bolster his slumping vessel up long enough to pivot sideways to direct his momentum with the addition of spin toward the mattress. He hits the edge backward with a grunt, knees buckling to lay him out backward on the dilapidated double-sized excuse for coziness. Slamming the door hard enough to rattle the hinges, you give the graceful landing a 4 on a scale of 1 to 5, losing a point for the inharmonious protesting squeal of broken springs beneath his bulk.

“What happened?” you ask, quickly crossing closer to flick on the lamp. Sinking down beside him, you prod at the palm he presses tight to his torso. Fresh crimson spatters his shirt.

He resists your efforts to pry his hand aside.

“You’re bleeding,” you admonish. “Let me see.”

“I’m-” he strains, biting his tongue; seized by a jolt of agony - the argument lacks a convincing level of fervor given the judder- “ _not_.” He gasps.

“You are,” you insist. He’s not even pretending to be stoic and that means it’s serious. You once saw him take an axe to the thigh, remove the weapon with a warning glare to hew the head from the shoulders of the offending vampire, and then run down another of the nest in spite of the incapacitated limb. “What happened?” you repeat the question and the demand. “Let me see.”

“Demon,” he grits through clenched teeth, in the same breath allowing the palm to be persuaded to lift; a blinding bolt of blue light blazes from a blood-ringed hole in his ribcage to swath the ceiling in ethereal glory. “Ambush,” he adds in explanation; in retrospect of thought, a husky laugh rattles his chest, squeezes past a painfully forced smile donned for your benefit. “The one who stabbed me, he won’t be sneaking up on anyone, angel or otherwise, again.”

You replace his palm with yours, leaning bodily over him to put pressure on the wound. “You’re bleeding _grace_.”

Lashes lowering to look at where your fingers splay to cover the break in not just his vessel’s skin, but his angelic being, he bobs his chin. Knowing first hand how much it agonizes you when Sam or Dean gets badly injured, he didn’t want to burden you with seeing him hurt thus, nor did he want to risk putting you in harm’s way. He didn’t have a choice though - _doesn’t_ have a choice; from what vitriol the demon spewed prior to his smiting, the angel and his loved ones are being targeted - and with a wound deep enough to drain grace, he’s vulnerable. He can’t do this alone. He trusts you, and he knows you’re resourceful.

“Cas, what do I do?” You’ve stitched up your share of gaping holes in hunter bodies; hell, in your own flesh, but you haven’t got a clue how to stop a streamer of angelic life-light from illuminating a room.

“I need … _time_ -” Shock-cold fingers shroud your hand, shiver as he strains to speak- “somewhere safe.” Consciousness beginning to fail, his eyelids hang heavy.

_Time_ you have. _Safe_ you can arrange. “Okay.” You nod. “I understand.” Covering his hand to encourage him to keep pressure on the spot, you slide your fingers free and stand. Stooping, you guide his legs onto the bed and ease him to his side. Carding a caress through his chestnut hair, you cradle his head and fluff a pillow under his neck for support. Fondly smoothing the tousled curls, you move your attention southerly to slip the boots from his feet. Finally, you draw the comforter up over him; bending to tuck the threadbare hem in around his shoulders, you brush your lips in a warm breath of a kiss upon his temple and reiterate the heartfelt promise he has spoken to you so many times before when it was you who needed him. “I’ll watch over you.”

“Thank you,” he garbles the gratitude in blanketing weariness; drifting into the insentient detachment devoid of dreams that characterizes angelic sleep, it’s your reassurance and softly smiling aspect echoing comfortingly in his mind.


End file.
